


i just want to be something, something real

by sicklikewinter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sicklikewinter/pseuds/sicklikewinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is such a delicate thing—fragile and tiny.</p>
<p>His name is Karkat, and he just wants to be <i>real. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	i just want to be something, something real

**Author's Note:**

> so i had a fun idea about a glassblowing au where john was a lonely, howl-esque kind of person and made pretty glass things and he ended up wishing on a meteor shower that one of the creations (karkat) would come to life 
> 
> and yeah
> 
> these are little bits and pieces that aren't that great but it's the thought that counts

He’s a delicate thing, fragile and tiny.

He knows he should be grateful, thankful even for his existence; but he can’t bring himself to do so. He hates the existence he’s been brought into. The world goes on without him, filled with excitement—thrilling and terrifying and beautiful even!—and he can’t even see it.  

One wrong move and he would  _shatter_.

Break.

**_Crack._ **

His name is Karkat, and he hates John-fucking-Egbert for bringing him into existence (but he doesn’t he doesn’t  _really._ In his chest where a heart would be it  **aches**  when he tries to hate—he could  _never_ hate the blue eyed boy oh no no no!).  

Karkat’s world consists of the knickknacks and bric-a-brac items John hoards and keeps in the living quarters of his glass blowing shop.  His sunrise is the sudden flash of fluorescent lighting flicked on by a half-asleep John, and his noonday heat is the sunlight filtering in through the windows.

(The shades pulled up for Karkat to observe the outside world; always an observer, _never_  a participant.)

His world consists of an upper level floor filled top to bottom with every trinket imaginable. He’s an explorer, observing every knickknack John adds, his mountains are the multitude of DVDs and VHS tapes on a bookshelf, and his rivers are the streams of blankets John leaves lying around on the floor to prevent Karkat’s delicate feet from chipping too badly.

(they chip regardless, another hidden away flaw of karkat’s that he has to keep from john. it aches so badly keeping such a burden secret. it aches aches aches.)

He has companions, however, creations that John has made; yes that’s a good thing—great even! Sometimes John brings him downstairs into the shop, and he lets Karkat explore. Karkat has made friends with all the figurines on the shelves.  There are eleven other figurines that look just like him, and he’s introduced himself to each one.

Aradia has an air of nonchalance, filled with curiosity and excitement. Karkat hasn’t spent much time talking with her, she can’t talk back of course, but it’s nice to pretend. He pretends she talks to him in echoes and disinterest, more excited about the ruins she is perched alongside.  Karkat knows about Tavros, a shy thing who seems too happy too innocent too  _saccharine_  for Karkat’s rough and abrasive personality. He leaves him be, and moves on to Sollux. He thinks the figurine dislikes him, and even though it’s improbable, Karkat’s  _sure_  Sollux gives him the stink eye when he talks with Aradia; and it’s a love-hate kind of relationship that Karkat treasures dearly.

(It’s the only friendship he has, John is a good kid honest!, but he doesn’t  _get it_. Karkat was a glass figurine, not flesh not blood  ** _not real_**.)

Nepeta is the one he goes to and talks about his feelings.  She is an enthusiastic looking girl, frolicking happily with the large cat beside her. He goes to her when he feels like no one else will get, about the soap operas he watches. He dislikes the smug, knowing grin on Terezi’s face, and Vriska’s posture screams that she shouldn’t be trusted. Equius’ form always unnerved Karkat, and Gamzee wasn’t the  _best_ of listeners per se. The glassy—oh the irony—look on his face more often than not irritated him, and Eridan was a pompous jerk anyway.  Feferi’s wide shark-toothed grin terrified Karkat, and that left one last figurine he enjoyed talking to the most.

Kanaya.

She’s another figurine he goes to—though he stays with her more than anyone else—to talk about his feelings, and his wandering thoughts about John and what they mean. He lays his head in her lap, and pretends she is petting his hair down in small, soothing patterns. It works for a while, as he spills his secrets and fears and hopes and dreams. The sound of John opening the door and announcing his arrival shatters the pretend okay world Karkat’s created.

(that’s all he does anyway—pretend he’s normal pretend he’s okay pretend he’s _happy_ )

When night approaches, his sunsets are the setting sun from behind a glass window pane, and he’s never felt more alone.  John tries his hardest, bless his little awkward and silly soul, he tries to make Karkat as comfortable as possible. It never works, and he always feels terrible there hasn’t been a smile on Karkat’s face—a genuine one, not faked, not forced—in such a  _long time_.

When John goes to bed, Karkat creeps from his hiding place and treks (a long, grueling, dangerous journey) to the lower floor of the building to Kanaya’s cool and comforting arms. He cries into her shoulder—small crystalline tears, itty bitty gems that fall from his eyes, a mysterious side effect for being a mutant in this world—and suddenly he’s angry.

He’s so, so, so,  ** _so god damned angry_**.

He screams at the top of his lungs, feels his entire form rattle and shake, threatening to break and shatter, warning him to stop stop stop; but he doesn’t heed the feeling. Karkat angrily grabs Kanaya—he ignores her surprised shriek, shrill loud terrified all in his head it’s all in his fucking head!—and tosses her over the shelf she sits upon. The sound of shattering glass makes him even angrier, and Karkat’s entire form is shivering and shaking with emotion, he doesn’t even know if they’re  _real_ , and his world suddenly shrinks around him. He spies the broken and shattered form of Kanaya way down there on the floor, and suddenly there’s an ear splitting scream once again.

Karkat’s heart (or what equivalent this fucked up condition has)  _aches_  at the sight of his friend in pieces. He’s crying once more in frustration, and he can hear the sound of shifting and the thud thud thud of rapid footsteps on the stairs. John’s face peers at him, wide eyed and worried. There’s a moment of absolute silence before Karkat opens his little mouth to speak. A hiccupping sob escapes instead and the lights are illuminating the crime scene.

“I’m  _sorry_! I’m sorry John! I just…  _fuck_ , I… I…” Karkat has never felt smaller, and John is shooshing him quietly. His smile is sad, guilty, and so so so comforting; and Karkat hates feeling like this. John soothes the crying figurine, before sweeping up the debris that used to be Kanaya.

“Shhh Karkat, it’s okay. I can fix her, you really like Kanaya right?” John’s voice is like sweetened honey mixed into tea, and it goes through Karkat’s ears smoothly, soothing and calming. He nods.

“Yes! Oh god, she’s a good listener and puts up with my bullshit problems. Oh god why am I so fucking  _stupid_? I got so upset I ruined her John! I’m sorry I…”

“Shh Karkat… c’mon, I’ll put her right up here and we can fix her in the morning, okay?”

John sweeps Kanaya into a small bowl, and Karkat aches at the sight even more. Setting the bowl down, John smiles at Karkat, who hiccups once more and tries to rub at his eyes. A few crystalline tears fall, and John holds out his hands to the small figurine.

Karkat clamors onto John’s warm flesh, clinging desperately to his thumb, and sighs. He shudders again, guilt bubbling and rising in his hollow stomach (he is entirely a mutant, an anomaly in the world and he hates it. he doesn’t understand his own body! hah!) and he tries to ignore it for the soft humming John is doing. The melody is unintelligible, but it’s soothing nonetheless.

Karkat can feel that black inky-ness that bubbles to his mind when he wants to ‘sleep,’ and he shifts on John’s hands. Once upstairs and safely perched in the dollhouse that served as Karkat’s home, John kneels and tilts his head curiously at the figurine. Karkat huffs and covers his face, embarrassed John saw him in such a state.

“Are you going to be okay?” John’s voice is laced with concern and it makes Karkat ache even more.

“Yeah yeah fuckwit. Just… just go to bed or whatever, I’ll be fine,” Karkat’s voice is stronger now, less mucus-y and tear-filled and more like his old self. John smiles fondly and leans close to the figurine. It startles Karkat, and he tenses for a moment before he feels soft flesh against the top of his head. John’s lips peck him softly on the top of the head, and Karkat feels as if he could fly.

(it’s a sensation Karkat never wanted to forget never never never ever.)

John goes to bed and the artificial sun of fluorescent lights shuts off, and Karkat is alone in the darkness. Curling up in his bed, extravagant and lovely, Karkat sighs.

He is such a delicate thing—fragile and tiny.

His name is Karkat, and he just wants to be  _real_. 


End file.
